


misfire

by mantisbelle



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Emotional Manipulation, Speculation, Spoilers for 15x17 and 15x18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 08:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11688111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mantisbelle/pseuds/mantisbelle
Summary: A dark shadow moves through Locus’ sights and disappears just as quickly. He takes the shot. He makes a mistake.





	misfire

**Author's Note:**

> So this is 1000% speculation and contains major spoilers for episode 15x17, and a minor one for 15x18 at the end. You have been warned.

The shot isn’t necessarily an easy one to take, but its there and its clear enough that he could take it, drop the gunner, and make all of their lives just a little bit easier.

Once it would have been easy. Locus knew that. Turn his mind off to it. Inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth. Don’t dare do it the other way for fear of the stink of war flooding his mouth. Ignore his surroundings and focus his entire universe in the scope of his rifle.

Apply pressure using right pointer finger and try not to jolt too much when the gun fires. Force the rifle back down into position and keep the recoil from overtaking him. Let Felix hiss his orders and taunts in his ear.

This isn’t like that.

The shot is there, but things are different. Locus can’t take it. He can’t sacrifice those morals that he’s spent the last ten months fighting so hard to establish. Don’t kill. Do good because its good. Money goes to people that need it- it isn’t like he uses his money anyways.

Once, Locus would have absolutely taken that shot and let the man die and he wouldn’t have let himself think twice about it.

(It always caught up to him. Always, somewhere in the dead of night when there was nothing that could be done to fight it off. Always, Felix would be there to reassure him. They need each other. Its necessary. Its part of the mission. Orders are orders. Its a droning mantra that enables years of monstrous behavior.)

Felix isn’t the one barking orders. It’s Lavernius Tucker. Lavernius Tucker, who might be the closest thing he has left to a brother on account of their shared sidearm. Lavernius Tucker, who had enraged Felix so badly that he had gone ahead and blown the mission.

(“Hey, just ‘cuz you saved us doesn’t mean you can leave, asshole. You killed innocent people!” Tucker’s words echo in his mind constantly, droning alongside Washington’s and the Epsilon AI’s. He killed innocent people. Not a soldier, just a killer. Your partner is afraid of you. Monster.)

Locus had said that he would make things right and he’d meant it. This is where he can do that, even if his first attempt had failed. He has to do what he can, try not to think about the refugees or the village.

(Don’t think about the bodies. Don’t think about the deaths. Men, face down in the streets. Women dead in their beds. Children, broken and curled into themselves in pain. Animals scattered everywhere. Don't go back to that battlefield. An alien standing with guns pointed at it. Bodies. Blood. Sweat. Death. Decay. Don't go back there. No matter what, don't go back there.)

He can’t take the shot. He’d meant it when he’d said that he wouldn’t kill again. He was a good shot, when he wanted a bullet to land it would always be on target. He’d destroyed plenty of kneecaps already that day.

But all that Locus gets when he stares down his scope is head, neck, shoudlers, and a bit of elbow. All too risky to land, and the elbow wouldn’t do much of anything to incapacitate. Not enough, at the very least.

He can’t take the shot. He announces it, activates his cloaking decide and lets himself disappear into the chaos. The opposing simulation troopers probably aren’t used to what he can do. They aren’t used to people that can disappear into nothing.

(They haven’t seen real war, Locus thinks to himself, and immediately feels bad for it. They’ve been victims themselves. They may not have set foot in a battle against an alien, but they were at wars of their own. It was just different. Locus isn’t even confident on that, considering what he knows about the Reds and Blues. They’re soldiers, just like him. Their suffering is real. It matters. They’ve just chosen a bad path.)

(He tries not to draw the comparisons to himself over that.)

Locus forces himself deeper and deeper into the battle. Does his best to drown everything out that isn’t coming from the radio in his helmet. All that he has to do is find a relatively safe position, take the gunner out by the knee, and reposition before they get a chance to track his vapor trail. He won’t fall for that trick again.

Locus finds his new position. Crouches in place and raises his rifle. He’s out of the way of friendly fire and is safe from enemy fire as long as nothing goes seriously out of the way. If that happens, if there is anything that Locus is confident is his armor.

(Second skin. New face. New identity. Stronger than himself. A shield from the world.  _“All you are is a suit of armor and a gun."_ )

Locus lines up the shot. He has it. The shot might go a little high, but shattering a man’s femur can be just as effective as taking out their kneecaps. Either way they won’t be able to walk, and the pain should take them out of the fight entirely. That’s all that Locus needs.

Time seems to slow down to a standstill. Its not real, Locus knows that. Its a mental illusion born out of too much familiarity with his weapon of choice, built from a long career specializing in war. Sometimes the rifle feels more like a lover than a weapon. A constant companion, always there to keep him safe.

Locus knows this logic is flawed, but a rifle is better than a flesh and blood partner. The rifle is cold and obedient. When he orders it to fire, it will always fire. It can’t argue back against him and that’s a relief (in more ways than one. Locus has enough familiarity with the entity known as Freckles to know that he wouldn’t want a gun that could talk back.)

What’s important is that Locus can rely on the gun. It almost feels like a part of him, an extension that was as dangerous as it was important. Locus will only use that power wisely and with the greatest possible discretion.

Locus remembers his trianing so well that its nearly second nature. He’d been young when it had been instilled in him, and it had never failed him. Locus was always more comfortable behind a rifle than he was up close.

Inhale through the nose and stare down the scope. Map out the shot and trace the trajectory in his mind’s eye. There, just above the man’s knee. As long as the gunner doesn’t move, the bullet will land exactly where Locus wants it.

He concentrates, and tries to keep his jaw slack so that he won’t fall back into the habit of gritting his teeth when he fired. A dark shadow moves through Locus’ sights. An ally maybe? Nobody had said anything about moving after he had.

The others are screaming in his radio, but Locus can’t focus on anything over his own concentration.

The shadow is out of his way, and that’s all that Locus needs. The trajectory is there, one straight line. His bullet will cut through the man’s leg and he’ll drop right then and there. That’s all that Locus needs.

He’s confident in one thing, and its his own ability behind that rifle.

Locus finally does it. Applies pressure with his pointer finger and tries to ignore the bang going off next to his head when the rifle fires.

At the last possible second, that shadow flits back into his vision and Locus’ heart stops. The shot has already gone off, and when Locus pulls his vision away from the scope its barely in time for him to be able to process what is happening.

He should be there. Washington shouldn’t be there, standing in the middle of battle or crumpling like a potato sack the same way that Locus had seen so many times before. Grey armor. Yellow stripes and details.

Agent Washington,  _David_  falls to the ground, blood spraying out one side of his neck and his head having snapped to the side with the impact.

It takes absolutely no time to understand what had happened.

Locus knows the trajectory of his shot. He can still see it in his mind’s eye.

Locus sees the line that his bullet cut through Washington’s neck. Washington, who was still delirious and confused. Washington, who was starving and dehydrated and in severe need of sleep. Washington who had once played the game of mental chess that Locus had needed back on Chorus. Washington who had managed to instill some reminder of humanity in him.

Locus has shot him before. Last time it had been with intent. Shoot to kill. The fact that it hadn’t done the job had been a miracle but  _this isn’t like that_  because he’s  _different_  now and Locus  _knows_  his rifle better than he knows himself.

The world is still in standstill. The screaming doesn’t matter. The gunfire doesn’t matter. The pounding of his own heart echoing in his ears, and the way that it shakes his body, and his breathing getting labored and panicked because  _he just did that_  doesn’t matter. He feels sick. He needs to do something. Run in. Scream, fight,  _kill,_  do  _something._

In that moment Locus is sure. He’d broken his oath. He’d broken his oath on an accident and his won hubris and now Agent Washington is surely  _dead_  and how will he ever forgive himself? How could the others ever forgive him? They’ll find out he did it and then Locus will be forced to run for the sake of self preservation and-

Is it even worth it? The despair settles deep in his chest. He just killed one of the few people left that he cares about. Washington doesn’t know that he cares. How could he? One rescue isn’t enough to say that.

One rescue doesn’t speak for gratitude, for admiration. It doesn’t speak for anything. Even if it did, Washington wouldn’t have been able to understand it.

Washington died in poor health and hallucinating and it was  _his fault._

Locus silently swore a new oath to himself, since he couldn’t keep his first.

Once he’s out of this, and the Reds and Blues are safe and cared for, Locus will never pick the sniper rifle up again.

Clearly, he can’t fix things. Not when the sins continue to pile up no matter how hard he tries. Not when no matter how hard he tries he’ll fall back on old habits. The only way to stop is to declaw himself entirely.

It won’t bring Washington back. It won’t save Chorus. It won’t save the village of refugees. It won’t fix his past failures.

But at least without claws he can’t go forward and cause more (it won’t matter, a voice whispers in his mind. He’ll still kill somehow, he’ll still manage to  _fail._ )

The only thing that never processes is that this was an accident, completely out of his control.

There's no time to wallow, or drown in this. Washington's survival is more important. 

Locus finds himself in a standstill while the battle rages around him, and when it ends, he calls for help. 

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all comments and criticism are greatly appreciated.
> 
> [I'm on tumblr. Sometimes stuff happens. I'm always willing to take new prompts and questions there!](http://tyrian-callows.tumblr.com/)


End file.
